


On the Prowl

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [15]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Fingerfucking, One Night Stands, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 02:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4287699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara tells herself she went the seduction route on a well-informed hunch. Nothing to do with the woman’s eyes or lips or shampoo-commercial hair. Nope. If she’s the one decent piece of eye-candy at this excruciatingly tedious networking event, that’s just an added bonus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Prowl

**Author's Note:**

> for Myopicfriend, who prompted: clara x agent may, however you wanna do it.

Clara signals to the bartender. “Get her a drink,” she says, gesturing to a woman across the bar. “Whatever she wants. Put it on my tab.”

She watches the woman intently, tracking her reaction from wary to weary to mildly confused when she finds out just who her benefactor is. Clara gives a little wave, maintaining eye contact, quirking her lips just so. That flirty smirk she knows can make half the room weak in the knees.

Hopefully it’ll work on this particular stranger, the one making the hacked-together device in her purse go haywire. The only person here aside from herself who didn’t belong, who carried traces of alien planets with her. She’s beautiful, in a hard-edged sort of way. Clara tells herself she went the seduction route on a well-informed hunch. Nothing to do with the woman’s eyes or lips or shampoo-commercial hair. Nope. If she’s the one decent piece of eye-candy at this excruciatingly tedious networking event, that’s just an added bonus.

Clara repeats this mantra to herself as the woman slinks over. Up close she looks strong, unfairly so: coiled and capable, with a predator’s grace and ease of movement. This may have been a mistake.

“Hey there,” Clara says, mouth suddenly dry. “What brings you to the party?”

“Work,” the woman says tersely.

“You come alone?”

“Yes.”

Predator or no, she’s absolute shit at this undercover gig. She keeps glancing around, adjusting earrings that are probably radio transceivers, stingily doling out tidbits of information that couldn’t seem more made-up and memorized if she tried. Maybe she knows it’s bad. Maybe it’s bad on purpose. Maybe it’s a trap. 

“Look,” Clara says, feeling the beginnings of a plan work itself out in her head. “I don’t care who you are or why you’re here. You don’t want to talk, that’s fine. I don’t need Invented Backstory No. 6, or whatever.”

The woman tenses visibly, hands drifting to where holsters would be. “If you didn’t want to talk, why did you buy me a drink?”

“Same reason I’m about to give you my room number,” Clara says, voice low and confident. Sultry, even, if she might say so herself. She takes a pen and a business card out of her purse (Elizabeth Rourke, CEO of Management Solutions, Inc) and writes the number on the back of the card.

The woman doesn’t blink as Clara slides the card towards her. Deliberately, she picks the card up. Equally deliberately brushing against Clara’s fingers. She looks like she doesn’t quite buy Clara’s story. Then again, she looks like the sort of person who doesn’t quite buy _anyone’s_ story.

Clara gives her a slow, heavy-lidded once-over, tracing her curves and taut lines with her eyes. Putting her desire to good use, making it plain on her face. Then she smiles, raises an eyebrow, and leaves without looking back.

 

Ten minutes pass. Twenty, thirty. Clara’s wondering if she should give up and start figuring out an alternate plan when there’s a knock on the door. It’s like being hit by a freight train when she opens it, the beautiful stranger in a little black dress barreling in, slamming the door shut, slamming Clara against the door, and kissing her soundly.

Clara wasn’t as prepared for this as she thought she was. She tries getting the upper hand, manages to maneuver them further into the room, breaking only a small selection of the decorative lamps and bowls of fancy rocks littered about the place. They bounce like a pinball off the couch, the dresser, the bedposts, and then she’s backed up against the wall again. And that’s where she’s staying, from the looks of things.

She’s abstractly realizing she’s probably being patted down for weapons, and frankly not really caring. High heels on and they’re just about the same size, high heels kicked off and she’s tilting her head up. Neck bared to this stranger who could be anyone, really, could be a spy or an assassin or a super-ninja, or whatever. And she’s afraid, now, just a bit. She’d be more scared if the woman didn’t seem to be enjoying this, if it weren’t for the twitch of her jaw and the hunger in her eyes. If it weren’t for her apparent enthusiasm, biting and sucking on Clara’s lower lip, thumbs rubbing Clara’s nipples through the thin fabric of her blouse.

She presses her thigh between Clara’s legs, and Clara gasps into her mouth. Her hands dig instinctively into the woman’s arse, pulling her closer. Realizing, faintly, that at some point she’s going to have to switch into Save the Universe Mode. But later, later; the universe can wait. The universe, honestly, should learn some patience. She’s sacrificed enough for it. This is her turn, now.

The thigh is replaced with a hand, sliding up under her skirt to palm her cunt, fingers brushing the edges of her panties. A needy whine escapes her throat. She threads her fingers through the woman’s hair and hangs on tight, their lips locked together, standing up on tip-toes for more purchase, more friction, just more, please, more of _that_.

Maybe the bad cover was itself a cover, maybe the woman was actually a fantastic liar and this, here, was a lie, and a trap, and a very bad idea - her thumb comes up against Clara’s clit, calloused and insistent, and all thoughts vacate her head. She’d wanted to stay calm and collected, stay cool, in charge, and that’s not working out, is it? The way she’s bucking against the fingers slid inside her, the way she can’t keep her hands off the woman’s back, lean muscle flexing under her touch. The way she’s moaning, throaty and shameless. The way she’s folding like a cheap card table, submitting so willingly.

She’d laugh, if she had the wherewithal. She’d laugh at herself for thinking her wing-and-a-prayer plan would work against someone like this. Someone who can effortlessly pin her against the wall, can make her cry out while barely breaking a sweat, can draw an orgasm out of her so quickly and efficiently she’s almost embarrassed to be coming already.

Adjusting her clothes as best she can, she makes a move to reciprocate. She gets as far as a kiss and her hands sliding down the woman’s sides with a promise in her gaze, she gets as far as kneeling before something, predictably enough, explodes off in the distance.

The device in her purse, abandoned on the bed, is beeping shrilly. The woman’s adjusting her earrings again. Clara was right about that, at least.

They share a guarded look.

“I’m not actually in the landscaping business,” the woman admits.

“I’m a school teacher.” Clara laughs, a little giddily. “So we’re both undercover, huh.”

She gives Clara a long, languid once-over, from stockinged feet to rumpled skirt to unbuttoned shirt to the blush Clara can feel rising on her face. “Nice cover,” she says dryly.

Once again, she’s cut off, mouth opening to deliver what would surely be a cutting retort when there’s a whooshing, whooping noise. That beautifully familiar racket. If the woman is surprised to see an antique police telephone suddenly appear in the hotel room, she doesn’t show it.

Clara hooks a thumb over her shoulder, gesturing at the TARDIS. “My ride,” she says. She hopes she won’t have to explain.

“I know a guy with a flying Corvette, these things happen.”

“Yeah, they do, don’t they.” She hesitates, then sticks her hand out. “I’m Clara, by the way.”

“Melinda.” Looking like she regrets letting even the tiny truth of her name out, but taking Clara’s hand anyway.

The handshake lingers longer than it has to, is softer than it should be. Clara pulls away first, walks to the TARDIS at a carefully-determined pace. She unlocks the door, shimmies her way inside so as to keep at least a little bit of this secret, then turns around. On impulse, she blows a kiss, then slams the door shut. She swears she can hear the woman laughing as the TARDIS dematerializes.


End file.
